


#HannibalEverAfter 2017

by diviningknife



Series: Once Upon the Multiverse [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Jumping Shark Tenses, M/M, More Telling than Showing Alas, Out of Character, Retelling Classics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diviningknife/pseuds/diviningknife
Summary: A collection of fairy tale themed prompts participating in the#HannibalEverAfter 2017event hosted bythesilverqueenladyfor the month of February. Current summary reflects the latest completed challenge.The God of Death lives in the woods, and he does not respond to discourtesy. They tell her to ask for permission before passing through the red gates, to leave an offering at the shrine if she wants to make a wish. They tell her if she wants to be heard, to be seen, to barter,  the gift she must leave is this: something old, something blue, something broken, something new.





	

The God of Death lives in the woods, and he does not respond to discourtesy. They tell her to ask for permission before passing through the red gates, to leave an offering at the shrine if she wants to make a wish. They tell her if she wants to be heard, to be seen, to barter,  the gift she must leave is this: something old, something blue, something broken, something new.

What they don’t know is that she remembers the God of Death from before. That of all the stories they’ve told, the closest one was about a girl called Red Riding Hood. And though they know a distorted version it still starts a little something like this: In that time long ago when monsters preyed on the lost and she had held the power to turn back life in her hands, there lived a family in the castle within the heart of the forest.

* * *

She is afraid, but it is the kind that stays with you, a worrying ache of leaving alone in the night. Alana can’t say her goodbye just yet, and so she fusses, brushing the snow off the hood of her companion. It’s not enough, she can’t help turning over her hand, gratified to have it gripped shortly thereafter. “Are you comfortable?”

Margot is quiet in the way that she’s learned to read as apprehensive, not entirely decided on this course of action. Her stillness speaks of skepticism, but she had come anyway. Alana smiles, part to reassure and part because the swell of her heart at the show of faith is helpless to do anything but express itself.

“Tell me again why we’re here?” She makes a gesture that at once encompasses the surroundings even as it bears hesitant curiousity to the circumstance. Sitting as they are on the steps before the small building that houses the shrine, finding some measure of resolution has never seemed so close and yet so far. Alana is secure with that bone deep certainty some others might find in the absolved devout that Hannibal will always honor his promises. The problem is that she has to catch him first.

“The God of Death owes me a favor.”

Margot turns to face her, half like she wants to believe. And yet her voice is airy, tempered gentle as though anything harsher will break the fragility of this moment; the precipice of having hope for an impossibility. “How did that happen?”

* * *

It is one of those winter mornings, where the breath held in your throat feels like a cutting knife’s edge, and the crisp snow lies pure and untouched in powdered layers. He’s still sleepy, but the wind is for once content to make itself tangible somewhat sparingly and that is too merciful not to take advantage of. He raises his head to scent the air, indolent with innate grace. There is nothing particularly striking to his fancy, the sharpness of pine mixing in with the undisturbed fullness of familiar woodlands. He’s a long way from prey, and the urge to hunt is a mounting inclination.

It is a quiet beauty all the same, parting the sea of whiteness as he picks his path through the woods with unerring accuracy. There’s a small lake somewhere with fresh water sweet and clean, as good as any starting point. He is skirting past the trunk of the massive larch tree, halfway there, when something catches at his attention. It’s not a noise, more a twinging discordance, like a string wound tight to snapping. It sounds like a smothered cry on the ethereal plane, hollows his chest before he can interpret all the tones.

There is a rushing in his ears that accompanies the drumbeat of his pulse keeping rhythm, running as he is, towards the tracery of that fey cadence. The snow dampens his sides, dusts his coat with glittering particles as he navigates the denser wilderness. It’s half instinct, his questing need, sets him on the right track as the taste of that terror hooks teeth into his resolve. Bursting into the sudden clearing arrests his movement, as the cause of distress makes itself known in the blossoming bruise of an unfolding tragedy.

* * *

It is a fantastical story, if it is indeed, a story. She studies her beloved, conscious of the ascending moon and their dwindling time together. If nothing else, the conversation had served the purpose of offsetting worries she might have had in the awkward silence that was not. Alana had given her a distraction and the grounding of past interaction in the same fell swoop. Margot stands, their laced hands allowing her to gently tug the other woman to her feet.

She kisses her, tender and careful with the things that remain unspoken between them. And it is not a goodbye but a greeting. _Hello,_ and, _I will still be fighting here when you return because you have made a home in us._ It is a reaffirmation of their bond, that beyond anything, when life had given her every reason otherwise she had consciously made the decision to love. That it was Alana, with her eyes always listening, who had reached across the distance and waited the walls down first. And this was their strength, the becoming they had sought together.

It is everything she has to say, and as they part it is no less nor more bittersweet than everyday they have spent without each other.

* * *

He sees time frozen, frames of images stuttering unprocessed, like the gasp of breath that can’t make it past his chest. The spill of vermilion is a brilliant contrasting severity, an intimate betrayal as it stains the ground with color. Knowledge is filtering in, prying through the cracks of his shock with every moment his eyes remain open. Her hair, shining like silver, and the spread of her coat as it lies discarded. The shape of the wolf that looms above her shifting with intent, fangs wet and seeking.

He barely feels the impact, only distantly recognizing the fact that he had moved insofar as to note that it had achieved the desired outcome. Picking himself off the ground, Hannibal keeps himself between her and the wretched creature. There is a ferocious noise vibrating from his throat, the sound of primal darkness awoken and the tranquility with which his fury burns is colder than the bitterness of high winter in advent passing. He observes that the wolf has recovered with difficulty, disoriented in some way that he is all too ready to exploit.

Hannibal drives his fists into that sleek hide, eschewing brute strength in favor of clinical application for maximum effect. He is a half finished image of adulthood, still too lacking to truly take the predatory animal head on without some strategizing. The give of bones underneath that frame is a savage pleasure, waylaid when the unmistakable feeling of magic shivers through the wolf to reduce lasting damage. He wants to tear the moon from the sky for this transgression, lay the corpse of her child to answer for unforgivable cruelty.

His hands grasp at the fur, ready to rend as he has been sundered; to make a mirror of his agony, when glinting green gold eyes meet his. He’s almost thrown off by that wordless spell, it’s only the lineage of his family and swift clamp of teeth around its ruff that has him riding out the rattling force. Hannibal bites deeper, working into meatier flesh as his hands creep up to secure his hold. The violence with which he pulls his head away is followed by a satisfying spray of blood and he swallows around the matted clump before baring his challenge with crimson grin.

* * *

Her breath fogs the air, a banner of wisping smoke curling into the evening sky. It is a singular solitariness, silent vigil upheld with praying palms appealing for mercy. Margot traces constellations with serenity, at once present and adrift from bearing true witness to the cycling hours. The blurriness of reality is a carefully manipulated construction she fully perceives as by design, given the remote location, but it is a good sort of feeling that she has no problem embracing. And so, when it comes, it takes her a few moments to acknowledge the intruding presence.

There is nothing that outwardly alerts her, she just decides to turn, and in that turning meets the gaze of an ancient. For the first time, she understands why certain elements are ascribed to otherworldly influences. If ever there was anything that could explain him, it would be that deft fickleness. Trickery and twisted wishes, the echo of dead dreams possessed by desperation. He is resplendent in the magnificence of his carriage, the regal slope of his head tilted in a human affectation. His coat is glossy, the oily black inkiness from which no light escapes. The shape of him is fashioned from nightmares, a staggering size that edges out her tallest horse by at least a hand and the equanimity with which he saunters closer is liquid, reactive fluidity. Margot could easily believe in this God of Death.

She leans forward, her hand outstretched on instinct. The consideration in those eyes is a dissection bordering on invasive, nearly alien in how discerning that weighted scrutiny maps out the silhouette of her identity. She does her best not to flinch, is rewarded when he very slightly nods and settles close enough that the heat thrown off his body is almost palpable. Her voice when it comes is measured with the steadiness of determined intent to which she has come to court the devil. “My name is Margot, and I am here to ask for your help in breaking a curse.”

* * *

Hannibal takes a wary step backwards, watches in a kind of rapt fascination. The wolf is splitting, awash in lustrous light as it wavers on the cusp of two separate states of being. It looks painful, the chimera of human and beast chasing the bones of each in a grinding rebellious transformation. It is slow to stabilize, and when the man emerges from the unraveling enchantment he is visibly fatigued from the exertion. That doesn’t stop him from glaring at Hannibal, however.

“She’s not dead.” The delivery of that information is almost perfectly calculated to pacify, soured by a minor note of petulance in the rasping scrape of his voice. Given he was gingerly touching his ravaged throat, it was also marginally understandable. Hannibal flicks a glance to the motionless form of his sister, his expression tightening when it returns on the rebound.

“I was sharing my vitality.” There is a complication of motion the wolfman attempts to gesture, aborted when he sees how attuned Hannibal is to his actions. “It’s soul magic, old but powerful. I wouldn’t attack a _child_.” The last is said with a kind of affronted disgust, too genuinely horrified to be a pretension. Green eyes peek up at his face, intuits his mood to be agreeable enough to continue explaining.

“That man there-” The telegraphed movement is made deliberately slow, pointing off to the remains of a corpse at the treeline. It seems to have been launched into the trunk at great velocity. “-he was the one that I interrupted.” Hannibal assesses, filtering the breakdown of events with this new lens; catalogues the nude state of the possible savior, the careful positioning to be non threatening and his reluctance to attack. He finds it a plausible explanation, and holds out his hand. “What is your name?”

“Will. Will Graham.” There is suspicion, but the offer is eventually accepted at face value. Will is wincing, his body shivering at the cold and there is a delicacy with which he distributes his weight that reminds Hannibal of previously snapped bones. If there is a small bit of guilt that has him taking off his cloak to clasp around bare shoulders, it’s drowned out by the larger share of speculative manipulation.

“Can you teach me this soul magic?” The incredulous look thrown his way is softened by the ridiculousness of Will's struggle to hold the edges closed. Unfortunately, his irritation loses none of its potency orally.

“No, and not especially after you just beat the last reserves of self preservation out of me. And before you start getting ideas, transferring your vitality would require a level of intimacy between us amounting to 15 years of friendship and the light of _that_ eventuality is laughable insanity on premise alone.” Will somehow punctuates the end of his sentence without actually overdoing the dramatics. Despite the snippiness, he’s nonetheless quick to sober. “I didn’t actually manage to repair much, and her time is still unwinding.”

Will chews on his lip, drags his eyes over Hannibal with something like judgement before cautiously offering. “I might...know someone.”

* * *

It is abrupt, the jarring loss of support waking her from dreamless slumber. She almost stumbles forward into a heap, the draft of cold air finishing what the surprise had started. Margot blinks blearily, focusing on getting her bearings back. It had been a fruitless night of one sided conversation, the God content to let her talk until she had exhausted all venue of eliciting a response. Only then did he curl very precisely to shield her from the bulk of the indifferent elements, closing his eyes and definitively ending further fraternization.

The uncharitable part of her wonders if being disrupted in this way was his signal that she could now proceed to ask while he is feeling magnanimous. She dispatches that thought as quickly as it occurs, tries to get a proper look to better surmise the motive. The Wolf is relaxed in his stance, half reclining, massive paws tucked in politely as he looks towards the entrance. His tail is sleekly thick, and still, even as his ears are tipped up. He looks unruffled, and she admits that he matches the patchwork impressions from yesterday. She feels the same sense of unease, like standing at the foot of idols; alive but for the virtue of their caprice. He has a candid confidence, possessed in his identity and the impact of that presence. She envies that poise, even as it allows for approaching honestly. Margot stretches out her protesting limbs, somewhat freshly encouraged to attempt an understanding.

Rising, she’s careful to step around his body and into line of sight. But the Wolf stares on past her, with an unblinking preoccupation and giving into exasperation she follows his interest. There is a man striding up to join them, the backdrop of tall trees framing him as though he is walking from a warped tunnel. In the sweeping light of dawn he is brushed with lushness, the flared vibrancy of a red cloak swirling around the simple starkness of his white ensemble intensifying the dynamics of that polarity. His hair is plaited, gleaming ash blond, accentuated by silver threads. It is meant to be striking, and were it not for how seamlessly perfect the whole presentation is, she might very well have been appreciative. Margot only feels a prickling dread for what this means. 

The stranger slides past her, walks practically into the Wolf, his hand coming up to lovingly stroke. She gets the impression that they are communing, a prospect that is strengthened in the wordless exchange that ends on perusal of her attendance to their privacy. Margot lifts an inquiring eyebrow in retaliation, quite about done with all the drawn out secrecy. If they wanted to start something, she had already indicated her willingness. Before that line of thinking could gain further traction, the man luckily spoke up.

“The God of Death, at your service.” The mocking twist to that sentence is flourished by the look he gives her, amber eyes glinting with amusement. She doesn’t bother hiding her dismay, the Wolf is clearly preferable to this glamorous danger. His delight is undimmed, widening to include a smiling mouth, the glimpse of teeth ample threat.

“And how is dear Alana doing?”

* * *

They had made good distance, the conversation strained by simple directions and the occasional comment. It's outwardly stilted, normal to a degree, even. If he did normal. Privately he admits to himself that Hannibal has turned out more compelling than he's comfortable with. Of course, with a first meeting like that, things were bound to improve upwards of anything in their continued association. But he certainly hadn't expected the breathlessness between them, the inconvenience of his underlying attraction irritable in the background. Will is a werewolf, part instinct part wild magic, and everything about the young princeling (whatever his protestations the man lived in a castle) is calling out to him. It makes him reluctant to engage, to avoid the striking rapport he's sure is waiting like a bonfire to rage.

It’s always an adjustment, carefully not reading too much from the light thrown off of his projections. The precarious position of knowing what he knows and the subtle influence that wields. And now this new anxiety of actually wanting with feral complexity is twisting him up, opening room for doubts. Will breathes in deep, less to take in the surroundings and more for the centering that allows. They're only a couple feet away from the top of the rise, and he should be focusing on more important things. The decision to come, for example. Will steadies, puts a foot on the scuffed path winding out of sight before he broaches the topic.

"I'll need to take her beyond this point." He winces at the obvious displeasure Hannibal emanates, the emotion jaggedly clawing up his back.

"This is the safest way. The other path requires degrees of submission. Whatever my lead, you must follow." Will turns then, needing to look, seeking whether that possibility was something the future could be built on. It's a shock to meet those eyes head on, like Hannibal had been waiting. He looks and that is his mistake, he looks and he is lost. To amber polished crimson, to the startling realization of not having to be alone, to what feels like the answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d been asking and the radiance of their synergy. Will looks at him and thinks, _it’s beautiful_.

“You must already know there is nothing I would not do.” Hannibal states it simply, settled in the peace of accepting what must come. In that moment, it feels too nakedly vulnerable, too like being touched by beauty for the first time. He is witness to the depths of devotion, glimpses the chambers of Hannibal’s heart and it makes him **yearn**. Will quickly nods, breaking contact and sets out to meet the end of the track. He needs time to compose himself, to pull back from the rawness of falling further in. There must be so much written on his face, he’s almost thankful for the danger before them.

Will shifts to the side as Hannibal draws level with him, reaches out for the first time to tuck himself around the siblings. As though he could fold them into comfort with his embrace. His dominant hand goes up to anchor around Hannibal’s neck, the other wrapping around the curve of Mischa’s body as it fits between them. The positioning gives him a chance to luxuriate in the illusion of closeness, to enjoy the reaction of his provocation; right before he tips them off the cliff and into the rushing wind.

It feels exhilarating, the recklessness of travelling in this way. It’s a little like slipping into a stream, the coursing currents laughing with all the places they’ve been. He’s searching for a specific grotto, careful to keep half his attention on Hannibal for all that it seems he’s thrown them towards an accelerating death by descent. It’s partly a test really, and he’d probably worry about the lows he’s sunk to out of pettiness about maybe being something in feeling with Hannibal if they hadn’t just been caught up gently by a strange breeze. Will frowns, uneasy up until he catches the signature of that fleeting presence.

“Is this a new game, Will?” Her teasing tone is bright and curious. “You’ve never struck me as the type for a suicide pact before.”

“I thought you were still sleeping.” He knows better than to look for the direction of her, it is winter after all. It’s a relief to be found so soon, actually, and forsake the long way of more treacherous means. She deposits them in one of the empty caverns pitted on the face of the bluff and he belatedly scrambles away from Hannibal.

“Who is your friend?” Alana is a shimmer of swirling particles, affixed in a vague form and Hannibal stares at her with deceptive placidity. It throws him off, and he has to scramble to remember why he’s shamming. He’s about to make proper introductions when she interrupts again, the concern warm and immediate in the timbre of her voice. “What’s happened to her?”

“It was an intruder. Someone from the north, with the craft to design a trap. I only came upon him after he’d fired the first shot, but by then.” He trails off, awkward with words when the latticework of magic still lingers as adequate explanation. “He was going to use her for some kind of summoning, if I read the runes right. Is there...anything you can do?”

Alana is quiet as she analyzes, and it speaks volumes. He’s not the only one to grasp the enormity of that silence but Will is understandably startled when Hannibal decides to speak at last, even more so at what he chooses to say. “Please. She’s my little sister, the only person I’ve ever loved.”

There is a pause after that, and he knows like he knows the color of the sky, what Alana will say. Perhaps she senses his weak protestations stirring up, because she directs her reply at him in a gentle admonishment. “It’s my choice, Will. I can choose to do this. Laying down the mantle is what we do, when we pass our legacy to the next generation. And it’s not like I’m going to die.”

She dismisses him with a briskness, the ruffle of wind mussing his head in playful solemnity. Alana focuses, her shape more distinct as she slowly draws upon power to appear fully to Hannibal. He for his part, watches the transformation with the dutiful keenness of a student learning by memorization. There is a faintly polite admiration he projects, but his interest is oddly less intense in comparison to their first meeting and Will wonders what that means.

Alana smiles disarmingly, makes a cordial introduction deftly stepping around the circumstances that he can tell scores points with Hannibal. They talk, and he is taken somewhat out of his element to see them interact. It is as if there is something more meaningful laid out before him then just this meeting. The rippling reflection of two parts of his life colliding, and it is disconcerting but grounding all the same. He doesn’t really want to examine too closely why that is, refocuses in time to catch Alana’s explanation.

“Soul magic is a delicate balance of control and power. It is one of the more archaic forms because of how difficult gaining mastery is. There are devastating consequences, and one should not attempt transference lightly.” She looks at Hannibal intently, nods when it seems he is appropriately impressed by the severity of this emphasis. “I hold a certain position as guardian in this territory, and that grants me distinct abilities. I can save your sister. It will make me mortal, however, and we will both suffer some side effects.”

And just like that, her demeanor sharpens, becomes something unbearably direct as she looks at Hannibal. Will can practically feel from the air, that she is telepathically communicating, that whatever she had decided previously doesn’t have to include Hannibal or his wishes in consideration. It isn’t something he can interrupt, but he moves anyway, just the slightest nod to convey his faith; because he believes in Hannibal, suddenly needs him to have that fact realized. Here, where everything could potentially change, the immutable truth would remain.

She suddenly speaks again, for his benefit. “Despite knowing this, do you wish to continue?”

* * *

They are leaving the last of the trees when Alana makes her appearance. She is suddenly just there, waiting slightly ahead with a kind of indulgent fondness. Her eyes are on Margot, but she smiles after a moment. Her gesture at the picture he makes, astride Will with cloak merrily flirting in the wind, is almost congratulatory. “It suits you. Although I don’t believe this was what I’d meant when I bound you into service.”

“Perhaps you should not have been so negligent as to the terms, then.” Hannibal’s tone is mild, even as he pats Will in admonishment over the silent laughter he can feel from the echo of their bond. “People need killing too, and I like to work to my strengths. Being a Hunter has not diminished the sanctity of this land and its people. We are quite careful in our design; the reckoning of the righteous must be tempered by true justice. The spirit of the letter has been observed.”

He idly reaches out to caress silky fur, voice purring with anticipated menace. “Now, tell me more about this Mason Verger.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, making bad decisions, my friend. Yes I'm doing quite fine thank you and how are you?  
> A problem of when you write and edit at the same time: *gets three different plots fighting for dominance*
> 
> I had a really vivid mental picture for this prompt, but that's likely a different story to be written later.  
> Probably the most compelling idea for this turning out like it did was, "HANNIBAL, WOLFRIDER AND PATRON SAINT OF WOMEN"


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